


Kissing Ass

by zayndehaan



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: First Time, M/M, Non-Penetrative Sex, Praise Kink, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-23
Updated: 2014-09-23
Packaged: 2018-02-18 13:27:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2350034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zayndehaan/pseuds/zayndehaan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Simmons won't stop sucking up to Sarge and kissing his ass. So Grif decides to show him how it's done.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kissing Ass

It’s a beautiful day in Blood Gulch Canyon. The sky is bleak and dreary, the same bland shade of light blue as always without even a single cloud to break the monotony. It’s as hot as it always is, and a light breeze is blowing through the brown and green grasses covering part of the desert plains. Grif fucking hates it here.

Inside his suit, it’s even hotter, and of course there’s a ventilation system but it’s a little hard to appreciate three very small fans when you’re practically sweltering and the world around you is blurred with heat.

“I fucking hate it here,” he reiterates aloud. There’s no response whatsoever. Grif stares at the sky and ground and canyon walls for a moment longer, and then closes his eyes. There’s no visible difference, as his helmet is opaque, and with that small comfort he figures he might just take a nap standing up. It’s warm enough to, anyway. 

He dreams that maybe he’s on a beach, like one back in Hawaii- or even better, in a world covered in fucking snow. God, that would be the best. He would volunteer to live in a fucking igloo situated smack dab in the middle of a glacier if he could. He would abandon his patriotic morals and move to _Canada_ , god damn it. As the unofficial motto of the BGC Army goes: Anywhere But Blood Gulch.

He can nearly imagine his fantasized ice planet and is just barely relaxing when a gruff, demanding voice yells from atop their base, “Grif! Simmons!”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Grif practically shrieks, and his reply is, unusually enough, echoed from just around the other side of Red Base. “God damn it!” he hears Simmons cry, voice unmistakably that of a nerd, and Grif is, for a moment, appeased. He might be frustrated, but at least Dick Simmons is as well. It’s the little pleasures. 

“What was that?” Sarge calls back, no doubt to both of them, but only Simmons gives him a reply.

“N-Nothing, sir! I’ll be right there!”

Grif’s interest is piqued, and he walks towards where Simmons’ voice is coming from instead of up to where Sarge clearly is. However, by the time he’s gotten there, Simmons has already packed up what he’s working on and is heading towards the doors to the base. Grif follows him.

“What’cha got there?”

Simmons jumps, and it sends such a fucking bolt of delight through Grif. He might hate everything about this canyon- and make no mistake, Dick Simmons is definitely on that list- but it’s so much fun to rile him up. How could anyone possibly resist?

“Just some work,” Simmons retorts sharply, and, god, Grif can practically picture the blush on his face. He can nearly see how it’d light all his freckles up. “Unlike you.”

“Excuse me?” They make their way up the stairs to the top of the base. “Quite frankly, I’m offended by your slanderous opinion of me. I’ve been working hard all morning.”

Simmons doesn’t reply, and Grif cocks an eyebrow. “Hmm… let me guess. You finally discovered how to jack yourself off and you’ve been practicing?”

“I already knew how to do that!” Simmons says angrily and Grif cackles. Yup. There’s no way he’s not blushing under that mask. “If you _must_  know, I was working on some potential battle plans against the Blues.”

Jacking off sounds about a billion times more fun and useful than that. “Oh, really? Are you gonna show Sarge them, then?”

“No,” Simmons says instantly. “… Maybe. Only if the opportunity presents itself during our meeting.”

They push open the doors to the roof of the base, and Sarge, hands on his shotgun, whips around to face them. “Men! What took you so long?”

“Sorry, sir!” Simmons chirps. “I came as fast as I could. It’s not my fault Grif isn’t very agile or fit.”

“ _Hey_ ,” Grif says, because wow! He’s not even breathing that hard, and it was only one flight of stairs anyway. Simmons’ first name is rightfully fucking deserved.

Sarge nods thoughtfully. “Well, I suppose not. Anyway, listen up. After much thought, I’ve devised a brilliantly cunning new plan to attack the Blues.”

As if on cue, Simmons goes completely quiet. Grif doesn’t actually know how Simmons’ brain functions, but he’s sure he can hear gears struggling to turn as the maroon soldier decides whether or not to tell Sarge about his own idea.

After what must have been at least half a minute, Simmons says, voice subdued, “That sounds amazing. Let’s hear it, sir.”

“Well,” Sarge begins, and after that single syllable Grif tunes the fuck out. He catches the occasional word by accident, sure: “Caboose” once, “bastards” a few times. When he hears “sirloin steak” he pays attention, tricked into aptness for just a second, but he quickly fights the urge and drifts back into his blissfully apathetic headspace where his only responsibility is to completely ignore Sarge’s ideas.

“And at that point, they’ll be so confused they won’t know who’s actually fighting them and who’s on their side!”

“So the plan is… a lot like the last three plans you came up with,” Simmons says, sounding heavily doubtful.

“Essentially, yes. I find that repetition and refusing to deviate from the norm are the most useful tactics a man can employ!” Grif can’t help but snort at that, and the leader turns to him. “Did you have something to say, _Grif_?” Sarge levels his gun with Grif’s chest.

“U-uh, no!” he stammers quickly. Getting shot won’t kill him- his armour will see to that- but he’s not really in the mood to get knocked back on his ass right now or have Simmons say cheerily ‘ _Good one, sir!_ ’. Grif continues, ad-libbing never having been his strongest suit, “I just wanted to say that, um, Simmons had something he wanted to tell you. About killing Blues, I believe?”

Sarge looks back to Simmons and Grif does as well. Simmons looks to each them nervously, caught between a rock and a hard place.

"I, uh…" Grif imagines that Simmons is the same shade of red as his armour. He’s certainly stammering like a kid who’s done something wrong.

“Go on,” Grif teases him. “Why don’t you tell him all about the plan?”

Simmons lifts up his gun for a moment, considering shooting Grif instead, and then finally he lowers it and says in a terribly false voice, “Sir, I just wanted to tell you that the plan— your plan- is great! Flawless! Needs no remedying whatsoever and is our best possible option!”

Sarge nods and says, triumph shining through his voice, “Well, of course it is, Simmons! I came up with it myself! You see, men, there’s a _reason_  I was chosen as your leader…”

Grif tunes Sarge out, the instinct natural at this point, and he leans over and kicks Simmons. “Kissass.”

Simmons ignores Grif, and for some reason that just makes him even more annoyed. He’s frustrated that Simmons didn’t share his _undoubtedly_ better plan, and he’s also pissed that the stupid nerd is practically Sarge’s bitch but won’t even stoop to try to tolerate Grif. Not that that’s entirely fair, because Grif takes great pride in the fact that he helps makes Simmons’ life hell, but. After all these years spent squabbling, there’s not even one modicum of friendship between the two of them?

Grif harrumphs, mood spiralling the more he thinks about it. He finally just gives up and goes, heading back towards the doors to the base.

“DID I SAY DISMISSED?” Sarge bellows, and Grif waves him off.

Doing his best Simmons impression , he replies, “I’m going to take a nap, sir. I can’t in good conscience be here while Simmons watches you suck yourself off. That seems like it’s very personal and none of my business.”

He dodges the shot aimed at his leg and ducks inside the base. Chuckling a little to himself even though he’s still mad, Grif makes his way to his own room, intent upon making good on his word and taking a fucking nap.

* * *

 

Grif has many things he enjoys about Blood Gulch, specifically things he loves at his base. He loves the heating and air conditioning that only work half the time. He can’t get enough of the fascinatingly coloured dark grey walls, occasionally plastered with lists of things to get done by Simmons. 

But Grif’s _favourite_  thing by far is how there’s nothing to fucking do. Sure, mindless apathy is his favourite state of living, but enough is enough! He can’t go see a movie, can’t listen to music unless it’s the same shit that plays over the radio, can’t have a drink or even any interesting food. He can’t go on a date, and he can’t even go hang out with his friends, because he has no friends here, because everyone in this canyon is either an asshole or Caboose. And, really. Come on. _Caboose_. 

After his (very cool and not at all childish or sulky) exit from the meeting, Grif stormed all the way to his room and has been residing on his bed in his civilian clothes ever since, nursing a can of pop like it’s mother’s fucking milk. He finishes it and tosses the can at the door, sighing. Maybe he’ll learn a hobby. A hobby other than getting insulted and avoiding being shot at.

As if on cue, there’s a knock on his door. So, not Sarge probably. Their commander would have just shot the bullet straight through the door as a way of knocking.

“Who is it?”

No reply comes, and Grif thinks for a moment. Simmons would have introduced himself, so it’s probably the rookie. That’s great! Grif can invite the new guy into his room and they can eat cookies together and talk about what a fucking sham this entire operation is! Maybe, at the end of the process, the rookie will have a more positive outlook on life at Red Base because of him, because of Dexter Grif! With these positive thoughts in mind, Grif rolls up to his feet and opens the door.

It’s Simmons.

Grif groans at a nearly comedic volume, and then walks back to collapse onto his bed. To his _horror_ , Simmons shuts the door and follows him.

“Get out of my room,” Grif whines.

Simmons stands at his bedside, looking vaguely uncomfortable. “You— no! I’m too angry with you!”

Grif laughs against his pillow, and then turns to roll off the bed and stand up in front of Simmons. The other man is still in his armour, and Grif wishes he wasn’t. Fights are always better when you can see the other person’s reaction. “You’re angry with me? Well, I’m pissed at you too, buddy, so I guess we’re tied!”

This development appears to take Simmons completely aback. “Wait, why? What did I do?”

“What _didn’t_ you do, more like!” Grif scoffs. “You didn’t tell Sarge you had a plan of your own, even though you knew yours would have been better! Now we have to waste time and resources-” He can see Simmons wince at that and he can’t help but smirk. He knows exactly what buttons to push. “-on his stupid plan, when we could just go straight to yours! Doesn’t that bother you at all?”

“Yes!” Simmons says angrily.

“But not enough that you would, like, even _consider_  bringing it up to him?”

“No!”

“Because you’re scared of him? Or because you’re just so fucked up that you have to be obedient beyond reason to your superiors?”

Simmons goes completely still at this, and Grif hesitates. He usually knows when he’s gone too far, but he might have accidentally overstepped. Something in Simmons’ demeanour has shifted. This is different from their usual fights, and Grif quickly changes his mind about the armour- he wants to be wearing his. His helmet is on the other side of the room behind Simmons though, so he grins and bears it, watching the man for a reaction.

Simmons finally says, ignoring everything else said, “Why do you think my plan was better? You don’t even know my plan.”

“I, uh.” Grif grasps at straws. “You’re just smarter than he is. Probably.” Again, silence fills the space between them. He can’t help but feel like he paid Simmons a compliment there, and so he adds in a patronizing voice, “I mean, not like it’s hard. The guy’s a fucking dumbass.”

With this jibe towards their superior, Simmons seems to relax a little, and Grif breathes out as well. For a moment there he’d been sure that something was going to happen between them— something hitherto unknown. Which is always a bad omen for their team.

“Don’t call Sarge a dumbass,” Simmons begins, and Grif rolls his eyes. “If anyone has the right to be angry here, it’s me! What you did at the meeting was very unprofessional! Even the implication that Sarge and I might be in a relationship was-“

Grif interrupts him smoothly. “Look, it’s not much of a stretch to imagine, _Dick_. You kiss ass all the time, I wouldn’t even be surprised if you were good at actually kissing Sarge’s-“

With that, Simmons pushes him forward, and his knees knock against his bed and cave in. Grif collapses and can’t help but look scared that he’s gone too far again and Simmons is going to shoot him in the fucking face. Instead of pulling the trigger, however, the man drops his rifle beside Grif’s bed, and then tosses his helmet across the room where it collides with Grif’s, a loud clang reverberating through the room. His chest, back, arm and leg pieces stay on though.

“What the fuck,” is all Grif can think to say, but it sounds weaker and lower than he’d expected. Simmons moves until he’s between Grif’s legs and has one hand on each of his thighs, staring at him with a deep intent. Grif can feel the hot metal of the gloves on Simmons’ armour pressing against his legs, but he has literally no words.

His instincts from earlier were correct— when Simmons blushes, it lights up his entire face and makes the freckles that dust his cheeks so much more prominent. It’s not quite maroon, but. If Grif has the correct idea about where this is going, then they’ll get there.

“You want me to kiss your ass?” Simmons asks, and he’s still a little anxious about the way he asks it but he definitely means to follow through. “You want— you wanna teach me how to jack myself off, or do you want me to suck you off while you watch? You can’t keep saying these things and then just— leaving, and not actually meaning anything by them.”

A thousand retorts come to mind at once; he could tease Simmons about remembering all of the things he’d said that he himself had even forgotten, or he could make a nasty comment about which way Simmons swung, or he could just call him a nerd and turn him down. He picks none of those options however, instead moving his hands to Simmons’ hair. “Yeah, I— I want you to kiss my ass.”

Simmons gulps down a breath of air and Grif can’t look away, hands tightening on the man’s scalp. He tugs lightly on Simmons’ hair and the boy obediently goes down, pulling Grif’s pants off and tossing them away. His underwear is soon to follow and Grif is struck by not only the absurdity of the situation but the look on Simmons’ face. “Simmons, is this your first time?”

Simmons seems very pre-occupied by Grif’s cock, and takes a moment before answering, “This is definitely my first time e-eating ass.”

“No, is this your _first_ time? _Ever_?”

“All right. It’s definitely my first time eating a man’s ass.”

“Simmons.”

“Okay, fine. I’ve never eaten a woman out either.”

“ _Simmons_.”

“I… It might be my first time.”

Grif sighs, looking up at the ceiling as if that might give him the answer as to how this became his life, and then runs his fingers through the short ginger hair gently. “This is a hell of a way to lose your virginity, Simmons. Very romantic.”

Simmons glares. The look doesn’t measure up to its usual intimidating self, seeing as Simmons’ mouth is only, like, two inches away from his dick. “Virginity is a harmful social construct created to shame those who—”

“Oh, shut up.” Grif grabs two fistfuls of hair and pulls him closer so his lips are brushing against the head of Grif’s cock, and, _shit_  that feels good.

Simmons doesn’t jerk back, although he looks nervous. He licks at Grif’s slit, tongue darting out at the head like he wants to taste him before he sucks him off, which is really fucking hot. Grif groans softly and lets Simmon lick and suck at his head for a minute more before saying, “I— I need more, Simmons, fuck. Just try sucking it, okay? You’re driving me crazy.”

Instead of acquiescing, Simmons pulls back and suddenly looks confused. “Wait a minute,” he says, “I thought I was gonna… you know, orally interact with your ass, not with your dick? I mean, if you would prefer this then-“

“Jesus, you even sound like a nerd during sex,” Grif laughs without the proper breath to do so, and his statement would be fully true if Simmons’ geeky voice didn’t come from wet, pink lips that are leaning down to press a kiss to Grif’s cock again. The room already smells like sex, and nothing’s even happened yet. He loses his train of thought abruptly, and says distractedly to Simmons, “You look _so_  good like that.”

In reply, Simmons sinks down onto his cock, taking as much as he can. He doesn’t gag, which is quite frankly surprising. Maybe he’s never done this before but Grif would be willing to bet he’s practiced on his own hand, maybe a toy. Grif’s fingers weave through his hair and then pull lightly. 

When he pauses for a moment to think about it, though, it makes total sense that Simmons would have a thing for praise. “You like that, don’t you? When I say good things about you. Tell you how well you’re doing.” Simmons practically preens, and takes even more, bobbing up and down. 

“You’re sucking cock like a god damn pro,” Grif encourages. “You look so pretty, too, with your lips stretched around my dick. Are you sure you haven’t done this before?”

Simmons starts to pull off, as if to answer, and Grif chuckles weakly. “Rhetorical, Simmons. Please don’t stop.”

Obediently, Simmons keeps sucking, starting to get into the feel of it. He hums a little and the vibrations send Grif crazy, heat racing across his skin and making his vision nearly blur. He has missed this— the crazy rush of heat and desperation. His own hand, trusty as it is, is hardly comparable to the way Simmons’ lips are stretched around Grif’s cock.

“Good boy,” Grif croons, and Simmons takes even more, moaning and gasping around his length. Grif finally tugs on his hair to get him to pull off, and he does so instantly. Grif reaches down and strokes himself just twice more before coming all over Simmons’ face, seizing up as he paints his jaw and neck with come. It’s the hottest thing Grif has ever seen and he’s pretty sure he said something close to Simmons’ name as he came but he can’t remember and he doesn’t really care.

Simmons moves to wipe some of it off, looking vaguely disgusted but mostly just absolutely dazed and wrecked, and Grif pulls him up to lie atop him. Simmons looks unbelievably filthy covered in his come, and Grif can’t resist kissing him.

The soldier starts suddenly, almost shifting away, but after a moment of blinking he presses back into the kiss. They settle there, kissing softly and just relaxing as they sink into the bed that now totally smells like sex. Grif is content to drift off, until he realizes Simmons is rutting softly against his thigh, rolling his hips in small movements.

“I’m sorry—” Simmons begins as Grif pushes him off, hand beelining to his cock, and Grif scoffs.

“Simmons, it’s fine, seriously. One of the best things about sex is the mutual orgasms.” Simmons still looks unconvinced, although how hard his dick is in Grif’s palm is a pretty good giveaway of his true feelings on the subject. “Emphasis on the mutual.”

He strokes Simmons back and forth until the man is gasping and groaning and practically leaking pre-come all over the sheets, and finally Grif decides to return the favour Simmons paid him. He slides down the bed until he’s got Simmons on his back and he can move in to suck his cock. As his lips close around Simmons’ head and he licks at the slit, Simmons gasps out, “Oh my god, fuck. I h-hate to admit it but I think you might be better at this than I am.”

Grif rolls his eyes and then pulls off to say, “Stop ass-kissing,” nearly instinctively. The words spark a memory within him, however— make him remember what had started this whole debacle. Grif moves Simmons around, practically flipping him over on the bed so he’s lying on his chest and front.

“What are you doing?” Simmons asks, sounding amused through his arousal. 

Grif replies in a mocking tone, “Oh, Sarge! I think you’re the best at everything ever! Your plans are never stupid and you’re not a fucking sadistic asshole with power issues!”

“ _Hey_ -” Simmons begins angrily, but Grif cuts him off, hands spreading his cheeks wide, and he leans in and licks there. Simmons gasps out something sudden and then makes a guttural noise, switching from grinding down against the sheets to trying to move his ass back a little.

The main thought that crosses his mind as he opens Simmons up is that they should have done this earlier. He murmurs the sentiment against Simmons and can feel a shudder run through the man’s body even though there’s no way he could have heard properly what Grif said. He works to open and lick his way into Simmons, and then when he can he starts fucking his tongue in and out of the man. Simmons only lasts a few minutes, thrusting back against Grif and down against the sheets, and then finally coming with a cry and his hands balled up into fists. 

Grif pulls his tongue out and goes to brush his teeth, easy as anything. When he returns to the room, Simmons has rolled over onto his back again and is staring at Grif with sort of a windswept expression. He looks absolutely wrecked, soft but still desperate. “Come here,” he says, voice lower and quieter than usual.

Grif obeys, stepping forward. He refuses to make this weird. He just won’t. “Now Simmons, _that’s_  what I would call ass-kissing. What you’ve been doing is-“

Simmons cuts him off with his mouth, an effective tactic. Grif will have to try that the next time he and Simmons are fighting. Simmons kisses like he’s an expert at it, and Grif appreciates the effort. He pulls away to breathe, finally.

“Just making my first time romantic,” Simmons breathes, and somehow, even after everything that just happened, even after the _sex_  he just had with Simmons, _that’s_  still the thing that floors Grif.

The sudden realization that accompanies the word “romantic,” that makes Grif think of what this might mean for him, for both of them— for their friendship.

He realizes Simmons is staring at him with both concern and worry, and Grif clears his throat. “I’m glad you enjoyed me _kissing your ass_.” Slowly, Simmons smiles nervously at him, and Grif settles beside him in the bed, pulling the blanket over them. He’s fine with this for now. It’s a beautiful day in Blood Gulch Canyon — there’s armour scattered all over the floor of his room, his sheets are stained with come, he’s now got years worth of blackmail evidence that the Blues or Sarge could use against him. And Dick Simmons is curled up next to him in bed, quietly and peacefully falling asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> special thank you to otter grifhorel, the griffiest person i know


End file.
